


The Owl and the Eagle

by Leryline



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leryline/pseuds/Leryline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the incident at Solomon's Temple, the only thing holding Malik together was his fury. Even so, there was a tiny, minuscule part of him that still loved and wanted to forgive the man responsible for the loss of his brother and his arm... a tiny, minuscule part that is ever-steadily growing. Now that fury is competing with something else. Could it be... love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Owl and the Eagle

Looking down at Altaïr was a sad thing.

Malik loved Altaïr – by God he did – and even after Solomon’s Temple he did. He remembered being so angry with Altaïr, so absolutely furious that he swore then and there, when he held his little brother’s dying, rasping body close, that he would open the man’s throat. As Kadar’s blood ran hot through his fingers, warm as tears, Malik swore that he would kill Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad. He screamed to whatever god was listening, he cried until his eyes were as raw as his heart, he slaughtered the Templars in cold blood and could barely see Robert de Sable fleeing through his tears. There was pain and heartbreak, and it was all because of Altaïr.

When he had returned to Masyaf with the Templar treasure, he had seen red when he heard Altaïr’s voice, so calm and smooth and indifferent. It made him gnash his teeth; it made him want to shout ‘my brother! My Kadar is _dead_ because of you!’ He wanted to grab Altaïr by the front of his robes and force him back over the stone parapet and _scream_ at him, to tell him all the things he had done wrong.  
Malik tried his hardest to hold onto his hate, to hold onto the bitterness that made him feel so alive. He knew that if he let go of the fury that held him together he would crumble like sand, running right through the stone floor of the bureau they’d caged him in.

The bureau was a tiny space; there was no room to run or jump or train. Malik could just get away with tacking a circular reed board to the opposite wall and flinging knives at its flat face, but that hardly constituted training. They had caged him like a bird, turning him from an eagle to an owl. Malik would peep miserably out from between the bars of his cage, staring at the sun that seemed further away than ever.  
There was always that tiny part of him that loved Altaïr. There was always that part of his heart that ached when he was absent, the part of his brain that stirred whenever those golden eyes laughed. There was something enchanting about Altaïr, something that overpowered the ruthless killing and spraying of blood, something that cast a shadow over the brutal lifestyle he lived. Perhaps it was in his eyes. Perhaps it was in his nine-and-a-half fingers. Perhaps it was in the thin scar that ran over his lips. Perhaps it was in his smile… but then again, Altaïr never smiled much these days. He had smiled a lot when he was a student, though. He was a favourite among the novices, so much so that they were not even bitter when Altaïr surpassed them in their studies. Malik had always been quiet – maybe that’s what drew Altaïr’s eye in the first place. But that was another story.

As Malik’s fire faded and Altaïr made his errands to Jerusalem, that tiny part grew into a small part, and that small part grew into a more medium-sized part. As Malik watched the assassin, demoted and shamed to the point where _Malik_ almost pitied him, redeem himself in both body and attitude, that medium-sized part grew into a large part. When Altaïr came to him after fighting Maria Thorpe, that large part developed into an enormous mêlée of admiration and love. Malik saw in those golden eyes the qualities that he had so sorely missed, the qualities that had been absent in Solomon’s Temple. It was then Malik knew that Altaïr was not the person he used to be.  
When Malik returned to Masyaf and found the entire place in disarray he had felt a shock in his heart. Altaïr had been right. Of course he’d been right – he’d been right the entire time. Malik had just been too angry and ignorant to see it. The Dai had rounded up those who were still loyal to their cause, and together they stemmed the rather large skirmish that was taking place between Altaïr and at least two-dozen mind-washed assassins on the very outskirts of the village. All the throwing-knife practice Malik had been partaking in finally came in very good use.

Al Mualim was dead. The Apple was retaken. The world was safe from Templar clutches once more, and it was all thanks to Altaïr. Malik had always made a show of pointing out Altaïr’s dimwittedness and stupidity, but in his heart he always knew the assassin to have a mind as sharp as a knife. Malik made to return to Jerusalem, cold and unsure, but he had been caught by the new Grand Master himself and asked to say. He could just see Altaïr’s amber eyes, and at the question Malik bloomed like some exotic flower. He complied, though tried to make it seem as if he was not as relieved as he really was. The entire castle smelt stale to him now, draped with the lingering whispers and promises of the Apple of Eden and its master, but in that staleness there was a sweetness – the promises of a new master and a brighter future. Just like that tiny part of his heart that had still loved Altaïr, the sweetness grew with time and blew away the cobwebs to leave a shining spectacle of hope standing in its place. Altaïr took to his new position as violently as he took to a blade, and sliced the old regime as thinly as the singular strands of a feather, washing them clean with the crisp winter air.

For Malik, it was an interesting thing. It was quite apparent that Altaïr was set on repairing what damage Al Mualim had done, and the Dai watched as the large pact of the old Grand Master’s supporters were unwound like a ball of yarn. It was almost graceful, in fact, and he was reminded of his old fury in the face of Abbas whenever he saw the man glaring at Altaïr’s turned back. When Abbas would catch Malik looking at him, the Dai would crook a sharp eyebrow and Abbas would turn away, scowling and muttering obscenities. Altaïr would then proceed to glance over his shoulder at Malik, his lips clad in a half-smile, and the rafiq knew he had known _exactly_ what was going on.

During the days Altaïr was busy with his work. He was always busy, it seemed, as was Malik. Their nights were consumed with much-needed sleep, their mornings early and evenings late. They worked apart, convening only when necessary, but at times like those Malik would be unable to speak to Altaïr and found solace in watching him instead. It was weeks – perhaps months – after the incident with the Apple that Altaïr managed to catch the owl of Masyaf and clip his wings with a few well-chosen words. In the dim, twilight-filled corridor he found Malik, volume in hand, sleeve pinned up. Altaïr caught him by the shoulder, turning him with a great, gentle force. Malik had missed touches like that – it wasn’t something that he would encounter in the training ring. Altaïr’s touches were little less than blows then, and when armed with a blade he was near unstoppable. It was in these strange little moments, publicly intimate, where Malik was able to feel his fingers right through his body. Altaïr had asked Malik if he wanted to train. Malik had almost dropped the volume at the pick of words the assassin had used, recognising them from the dusty years of their education. It was only once sentence, only a few words of code that would seem a strange thing to say. ‘Would you care to train with me on the east side of the castle?’

Night descended as it usually did, cooling the blistering air and kissing the sky with stars, flipping the coin of the sun to the side of the moon. Malik would have spent most of that evening sitting in his quarters poring over one parchment, book, document or another, but that night he was doing no such thing. He was holding Altaïr tightly in his arms, holding the assassin’s head to his chest as the great eagle perched between his legs. Malik stroked the sandy hair with the only hand he could offer, the stump of his amputated arm resting on Altaïr’s bare shoulder, tingling. Altaïr would turn him onto his stomach, the material beneath them warm. The two had not frequented their secret place since their novice days, and they lay their robes over the dusty floor. Malik had not felt such feelings for years, and his prior abstinence only made the sensations Altaïr gave him even stronger. In their younger days it was always Altaïr trying to assure Malik that it would be all right, that nobody would come, that they wouldn’t be found out – now it was Malik who was whispering that it would be all right, assuring the man that most others deemed enormously strong. Malik knew him not to be; Altaïr wasn’t rock all the way through. Malik knew that better than most.

For that evening, Kadar was forgotten. Malik kept attempting to grip Altaïr with two hands, forgetting that he only had one. When the dawn was bearing down on them, Altaïr fell asleep in Malik’s arms. The Dai looked down, and he noticed something.  
Looking down at Altaïr was a sad thing. The sleeping man looked naught more than a child, finally at an uneasy peace that he could not achieve while awake. As Malik fingered at the strands of hair damp with perspiration, he felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. He had felt a lot of things for Altaïr: love, anger, hate, guilt, jealousy… but never sadness. He wanted to kiss every pore of the man, to cherish the slightly paler skin of the great eagle, to make him feel _loved._ Because, despite everything, Malik _did_ love Altaïr.


End file.
